


Beautiful Midnight

by vtn



Category: Canadian Music RPF, Matthew Good Band, Our Lady Peace
Genre: Creepy, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-16
Updated: 2006-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I don't love you," he says in the kind of voice that, assuming I'm anyone but me, he'd be using to tell me to take my clothes off or whatever it is people like him tell their objects of affection to do.  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This story was made according to a simple recipe. Neil Gaiman + play rehearsal + notebook + boredom in between set changes + Raine/Matt, stir gently until evenly mixed. I may have messed up on that final instruction, though. The reference to "Let's Get It On" is in here because that song is the song for 'midnight' on the Beautiful Midnight album.

In the half-light of the room, we are everyone and no one. In the darkness, things are hazy and I can hardly tell myself from him or from the paintings on the wall. The paintings, let it be said, are of fruit bowls and bouquets, which I've come to expect from hotel rooms. Repeat trials have made me something of a connoisseur.

The pictures are of fruit and flowers, but they _could_ be…oh, what they _could_ be. I can imagine things that'd make your skin crawl.

"I'm absolutely crazy," I say as a car goes by outside, making bars of light bend and stretch across the opposite wall. A big hand gropes around in the dark, finds my earlobe and tugs on it.

"Shuddup, Good." I turn my eyes to the digital clock, which reads 12:06 AM. _Hey there you bad seeds, let's get it on_ , a little voice in my head nags. I remind the voice that, like other things not contained within the thin hotel room walls, that song does not exist. "You wanna avoid things…" he continues, drawling, "You better make yourself avoidable, or your ass is going to join the slush and the traffic cops on the curb." Which don't exist.

"Youuu fucking love me," I remind him. He moves uncomfortable closer, breathes right in my ear.

"I don't love you," he says in the kind of voice that, assuming I'm anyone but me, he'd be using to tell me to take my clothes off or whatever it is people like him tell their objects of affection to do. (People like me, by the way, usually don't say a thing. It actually involves funny noises in the throat and, in rare cases, the occasional asthma attack, but rarely words.)

"I would love you if you never opened your mouth again—or at least stuffed it with something before any words could get out."

The way he says "Likewise," I know he doesn't mean it. I smile, in the dark. It's 12:15 and I realize that part of me wants the half-light to last longer. Not _forever_ , just longer. Because the longer you wait, the less consequences matter. If I had to do it all over again, maybe I'd conduct a scientific study about that. And once the government reads it, they crossed the Atlantic Ocean and that's why the sky is counterclockwise at—

12:24. I shake myself out of sleep.

"Stop moving," he murmurs, shifts to fit me. It's something he doesn't do, not with me at least, and I realize he's probably falling asleep too. He kisses my neck. "It's late, honey. Les go bag ta slee." And, guiltily, I don't say a thing.

12:30.

"Raine." I mean to say it softly, almost gently, but instead it comes out in this voice I don't even recognize. Figures.

He squirms, groans.

"Is it morning already?" He looks around. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'." I'm pulling on my clothes.

"Matt." I hear the blankets moving as he pulls them back around himself, lacking the warmth of my body heat. "Leave."

I'm already out the door. Hall light burns my temples and sears open my eyes.

12:35.

12:36.  



End file.
